Dangerous Keepsakes
by dust on the wind
Summary: If you hang onto something for long enough, you're bound to find a use for it...
1. Chapter 1

_I do not own any of the characters from the series Hogan's Heroes. However, I claim ownership of any original characters appearing in this story, which was inspired by a real-life incident._

_The cover image is based on "Vase of Peonies" ca. 1882, by Claude Monet._

* * *

"Is Carter back?" said Colonel Hogan, as he came down the ladder into the radio room, the underground nerve centre for the behind-the-lines Allied operation which ran from inside the toughest prisoner of war camp in all of Germany.

"Not yet, Colonel," replied Kinch. "But he's probably waiting for dusk before he goes for the tunnel entrance, so the goons on the gate don't spot him. Either that, or he's trying to get out of helping with the spring cleaning."

"How's that coming along?"

Kinch laughed. "I can't believe some of the stuff we've found down here. I bet you haven't seen one of these for a while." He held up a Luger P08 pistol.

Hogan took the gun with a smile. "Looks remarkably like a novelty cigarette lighter." He pulled the trigger, and a little flame appeared from the breech. "I thought we sold all of these."

"We did, all but that one. It's got a casting flaw, the barrel's cracked. Should have been melted down for re-use, but I guess one of the boys in the metal shop decided to keep it for a souvenir, and then forgot about it."

"I only wish some of the other rubbish we've got tucked away down here took up as little bleedin' space." Newkirk appeared from one of the side tunnels, carrying a large box. "You wouldn't credit it, Colonel, there's still a pile of fake gold bricks down in Tunnel 4."

"You sure they're not some of the real ones?" asked Hogan.

"Real gold doesn't peel off when you stub your toe on it," replied Newkirk sourly.

Hogan chuckled softly. "That's true. What have you got there?"

"Hand-grenade paperweights." Newkirk put the box down, quite carefully, on the radio desk. "Nice little earner, they were, until they started going off. After that sales took a bit of a nosedive."

Kinch leaned forward to look. "Are you sure there are no live ones left in there?"

"No idea," replied Newkirk. "The only man who can tell the difference is Carter, and he's in Hammelburg, staking out the florist."

"In that case" said Kinch, "keep 'em away from the radio."

LeBeau glanced up from the German army uniform he was mending. "I know how you can find out, Newkirk. Take them down to one of the empty tunnels, pull out the pins and see how many explode."

"Very funny," growled Newkirk. "I think I'll let Carter sort them out...speak of the devil. Well, Andrew, how was your afternoon out? Meet any pretty little flower sellers?"

Carter had come into sight from the direction of the emergency tunnel, still wearing the checked jacket and brown leather cap which turned him from American prisoner to German civilian. "Actually, she wasn't that little," he replied. "Or that pretty."

"I thought I told you to keep your distance," said Hogan.

"I did. You don't have to get up close to tell when a girl's as homely as that one."

"Could she be a Gestapo man in disguise?"

"Boy, I sure hope so. Anyway, I didn't go anywhere near her - him - well, whatever," said Carter, as he began to change out of his town clothes. "I went into the _Weinkeller_, and I got a beer, and sat down right in the window where I could see across the street to the flower shop, and I started reading the newspaper. And then Max came in, and he got a beer, and sat down at the same table as me, and started reading the newspaper. Only he had the _Nachrichten, _but I got the _Morgenpost_, because the ink on the _Nachrichten_ comes off on your hands, and the last time I read it..."

"Carter." Hogan's voice cut across what might otherwise have developed into an extended digression.

"Sorry, Colonel," mumbled Carter, abashed. "Well, after a little while, he said,_ It's been a very warm autumn_. And I said, _That means we'll have a cold winter_. Which is kind of stupid, because it's halfway through spring already. So then he told me to keep watching the flower shop, and sure enough, what do you think happened?"

"Someone went in to buy a posy," said Newkirk, casually resting an elbow on the box of grenades.

"Yeah, and you'll never guess who it was."

Hogan guessed at once: "Major Hochstetter."

"It sure was, boy - I mean, sir. He wasn't in uniform, and he kept his face hidden, but it was Hochstetter, all right. He went in there, and half an hour later he came out with a bunch of peonies."

"Peonies?"

"Yes, sir. Or they could have been roses...or maybe carnations. They were definitely pink, anyway. Unless they were yellow..."

"Carter..."

"Sorry, sir. Anyway, whatever they were, he seemed kind of embarrassed about having them. Looked like he wanted to hide them in his pocket, or down the front of his coat, or something like that."

"I'm not surprised," said Kinch. "It wouldn't do much for his public image, being seen around Hammelburg with a bunch of pink peonies."

Carter, who was in the process of pulling on his army coverall, had turned around, and he answered over his shoulder. "Max told me he's been in there a couple of times every day, ever since the Gestapo took over the place. Sometimes he buys tulips, sometimes daffodils, and one day he even came out with a dozen gladioli."

That mental picture drew a wicked chuckle from LeBeau; Newkirk smirked, and even Hogan relaxed a little. "I guess he thinks it's a good excuse to call in at the florist and get a progress report."

LeBeau was still laughing. "What do you think he does with them all?"

"Probably tosses 'em in the nearest rubbish bin," replied Newkirk. "If he had a missus to take 'em home to - which he doesn't - she'd probably think he'd been up to something, and fling him out on his ear. And no other bird's going to look at him, no matter how many daffodils he brings with him."

"I don't get it, Colonel," said Kinch. "The Gestapo have gone to a lot of trouble, taking over the florist's shop and setting up surveillance. You'd think Hochstetter would be smart enough to stay away and not risk being seen going in there. He's blown the whole thing."

Hogan gave a rueful grin. "He needs a win. For some reason, the guys in Berlin aren't very pleased with him right now. Seems every case he's had in the last six months has gone bad on him. He's been very unlucky, and I can't think why." His eyes twinkled, and his men sniggered. "Apprehending a high-profile would-be defector like Martin Freischütz would go a long way towards retrieving his reputation."

"I should think it would." Newkirk pushed the box closer to the radio, earning an exasperated glare from Kinch. "I mean, Freischütz is right in with the top men. He's probably collected more dirt than the cleaning lady at Berchtesgaden."

"Hochstetter wants this one, badly," Hogan went on. "But it's not enough to sit in his office and let his men do the work. He has to be in at the kill, to make sure he gets the credit. That's why he's buying so many flowers, and he probably spends his nights either at the florist or the observation post at the rear of the safe house."

"I wonder how he found out about Spiegelmann's watch repair shop being an Underground station," said Kinch, while he removed the box of grenades from under Newkirk's elbow, and put it on the floor, close to the wall and away from the radio.

"Right now, that doesn't matter. He knows Freischütz was headed there, so he thinks all he has to do is wait, and grab him when he turns up. The only trouble is, Freischütz got there early. He was already inside before they started their surveillance. Now he can't get out without being seen."

"So what we need is a plan to get him out of there," said Kinch. "And Spiegelmann, too, now his cover's been blown."

"Right. And we need to do it fast, before Hochstetter runs out of patience and sends his men to storm the place." Hogan pushed his cap back on his head, and folded his arms, contemplating the problem. His men watched him, hardly daring to move in case it broke his train of thought; Carter even stopped buttoning his coverall.

"They couldn't slip out the back way in disguise, I suppose?" suggested Newkirk at last.

"No, Hochstetter's got men watching the rear of the building," replied Hogan. "Besides, Freischütz stands six foot seven. The only way to disguise that is if he's dressed as a lamp post. As for Spiegelmann...well, a man with one leg is always going to be a little conspicuous."

He picked up a pencil, and started sketching a rough map on the top page of Kinch's notepad. "Okay, this is Lindenstraße. The watchmaker's is here." He drew an X on one side of the street; then another, almost but not quite directly opposite. "And here's the flower shop. From there, they've got a clear view of anyone entering or leaving Spiegelmann's by the front door."

"What if we got a delivery van, and parked it in the street, to block the line of sight?" suggested Kinch, placing a finger on the sketch. "Then we could get Freischütz and Spiegelmann into the van and drive away."

Hogan considered the suggestion, then grimaced. "Too obvious. Hochstetter's agent in the flower shop would know right away that something was up, and call in the troops. I'm not saying it won't work, but we'd need a diversion. Something really big."

Silence fell again, as all five men tried to come up with something. Carter, his forehead creased in concentration, finished buttoning his coverall, and shuffled across the floor to where his jacket still hung on a peg attached to one of the wall battens near where LeBeau was sitting. His foot encountered the box Kinch had left there; he stumbled, half-recovered, staggered forward, then sprawled at LeBeau's feet.

"For heaven's sake, Carter! Watch what you're doing," snapped Newkirk. "Do you want to set those ruddy grenades off?"

Carter pushed himself to a sitting position and rubbed his knee. "Gee, I wondered where those had gotten to. But there's no reason for getting all worked up about 'em, Newkirk. They're all dummies."

"You sure of that, Carter?" asked Hogan, his head tilted to one side.

"Well, sure, Colonel. You think I'd let a bunch of perfectly good grenades go to waste? There's a war on, for Pete's sake."

"Guess it must have slipped my mind." A speculative gleam had appeared in Hogan's eye. He picked out one of the fake grenades, and examined it. "You know, I don't think we give the boys in the metal shop nearly enough credit for their craftsmanship. These are beautifully made. Very realistic."

"You think we can use one of them for the diversion?" Kinch shook his head. "I don't see how it would buy us enough time, Colonel. Even if one of us could get close enough to pitch a grenade in there, it's only going to take maybe ten seconds for them to realise it's a dud, and come after the man who delivered it."

Hogan turned the grenade in his hands. "There's more than one way to pitch something, Kinch. And as for the delivery man...well, who says it's got to be a man?" He tossed the grenade to Newkirk, who caught it in both hands. "I hope you haven't gotten rid of your bonnet and shawl during the clean-up. Tomorrow, Frau Newkirkberger's going to town."


	2. Chapter 2

_I apologise for the delay in posting - I decided this chapter needed some extra work, which turned into a series of complete rewrites. It was meant to get to the end of the story, but..._

* * *

Major Hochstetter, radiating ill-temper with every step, strode across the busy market square towards Lindenstraße, where he and his men had been keeping the watchmaker's shop under surveillance for almost a week.

Not that he begrudged the hours wasted, or the manpower committed to the task, or even the running costs of the _Blumenladen_. It would all be justified, if only he got a result; if only he could apprehend the traitor Freischütz before he could make his escape.

None of this was responsible for the volcanic rage gradually building up inside the major's chest. The cause of his fury was nothing more or less than the flowers.

It had seemed like such a sensible way to avoid arousing suspicion. The obvious reason for visiting a florist was to buy flowers. At this time of year there were all kinds available with which to make a discreet, unobtrusive nosegay; sweet peas, anemones, bluebells, all were in bloom. Yet whenever Hochstetter needed a pretext for calling in, that fool Geisler had nothing in stock but tulips or peonies. If the man wasn't such an idiot, one might almost suspect he was doing it on purpose.

_If he tries to send me away with a bunch of sunflowers, his next floral arrangement will be his own funeral wreath._

Hochstetter stomped around the corner into Lindenstraße, barely avoiding a collision with an elderly lady who was tottering along in front of him. Somehow he managed to dodge around her safely, muttering an apology which could easily have passed for a curse, and a few moments later, he stormed into the scented atmosphere of the florist's shop, setting the bell on the door jangling.

"_Guten Morgen, Herr Major_." Geisler, engaged in arranging pink and white flower spikes, let them fall. Even after several days of working under cover, he automatically came to attention as soon as Hochstetter appeared. He no longer saluted, but the reflex to do manifested in an urge to pat the artificial blonde curls above his right ear, a gesture which, for reasons he couldn't quite fathom, made Hochstetter vaguely uneasy.

With hindsight, perhaps allowing even the shortest, most slightly built of his men to adopt a female disguise might have been an error in judgement.

Aware of his superior's discomfiture, Geisler modulated into a placatory tone: "I have hyacinths today."

"So I see." The mass of fragrant blossoms should have wilted under the major's contemptuous scrutiny; but apparently hyacinths were sturdier than they looked.

"I was just going to make up a bouquet for you. I thought perhaps with a few ferns for contrast, and maybe some gypsophila..." Geisler trailed off, as the withering glare shifted from the hyacinths, and fixed on him.

"What have you to report?" snapped Hochstetter.

Geisler snapped to attention again. "_Bitte, Herr Major_, there has been no unusual activity. The watchmaker must have woken early, because I saw him open the blackout curtain at the window of his flat above the shop just before six a.m. At seven thirty, he left the shop by the front door, carrying a shopping basket and proceeded towards the market square. He returned half an hour later, at which time the basket appeared to contain a loaf of bread, a lettuce, a bunch of onions and a large _Mettwurst._ He opened his door for business at nine as usual, but so far today he has not had any customers."

Acknowledging the information with a dissatisfied grunt, Hochstetter turned to glare through the shop window at the front of Spiegelmann's place of business. "I don't understand," he muttered. "The information came from a reliable source. Freischütz should have been here by now."

"Perhaps he changed his mind," said Geisler.

Hochstetter's eyes narrowed. "We will wait for another twenty-four hours. If there is no sign of the traitor by then..."

His peroration came to a sudden stop with the tinkling of the doorbell. Geisler straightened his apron, smoothed his wig, and spoke in an oddly husky voice: "_Guten Tag, gnädige Frau_."

"_Grüß Gott,_" warbled the old lady who had just entered. "Oh, my, how pretty! And so are the flowers." Her eyes twinkled behind her glasses.

Geisler blushed, and glanced deprecatingly at Hochstetter. "Is madame looking for something particular today?"

"Well, my dear, I was just passing by, when your lovely hyacinths caught my eye." The _Frau_ hitched up her shawl, and cast a simper at Hochstetter. "Of course, I see you're busy...why, aren't you that nice young man who just spoke to me in the street?"

Hochstetter, who had moved away, and was inspecting a sweet little bridal arrangement as if he suspected it of treason, turned his head. "I believe so, madame," he replied. "Please, transact your business. I have not yet decided what to buy."

"I can see why." The old lady glanced at Geisler. "Oh, don't blush, dearie. You must have plenty of handsome young men who come to call on you. Why, when I was a pretty little thing like you, I had all the boys making excuses to see me."

Geisler went even redder, and suddenly became very interested in his hyacinths and gypsophila, while Hochstetter swung round, prepared to repudiate any such idea with vigour, before remembering that to do so would completely demolish his cover. By a monumental effort, he swallowed his wrath, and even managed to clench his teeth into something approaching a smile. "I'm afraid you are mistaken, _gnädige Frau_. I merely came in to buy some flowers."

"Good heavens, there's no need to be embarrassed," tittered the old woman. "Young love is nothing to be ashamed of, you know. My, oh my, but you remind me of one of my beaus from the old days. He had just such a glow in his eyes whenever he looked at me. It used to make me quite weak at the knees...and it still does." She fanned herself with the edge of her shawl. Geisler emitted a slightly hysterical giggle, and Hochstetter seethed.

Under the stress of the moment, neither of them noticed the pedestrian dressed in workman's clothes, who had stopped to admire the massed lilies in the shop window. He loitered for a few seconds, watching the performance going on behind the glass, then took his cap off, dusted it, and put it back on.

At the corner of the first cross-street, another nondescript young worker was watching for that gesture. He hastened back to the delivery van which was parked just along the street.

"LeBeau's just signalled all clear, Colonel," he said.

Colonel Hogan nodded. "All right, Carter. Remember, you wait until LeBeau gives you the nod, then bring the truck round and park in front of Spiegelmann's. If anything goes wrong, you and LeBeau get lost. That's an order." He straightened the lapel of his coat, and strolled off, the perfect example of an honest citizen of the town of Hammelburg, going about his daily business. Pausing in front of Spiegelmann's, he glanced across at the flower shop to check whether Hochstetter was still fully occupied. Then, ducking his head in the low doorway, he entered the watchmaker's shop.

It took a few seconds for his eyes to adjust to the dimness of the interior. With the blinds pulled down over the windows, and the dark, heavy timber fittings which must have been there since the Kaiser was a small boy, the little shop had a close, gloomy atmosphere, broken only by a bright pool of electric light centred on the high old-fashioned counter and the workbench behind it. The proprietor, a jeweller's glass in his eye, kept his head bent over his work. "_Ein Moment, bitte_," he mumbled.

"Actually, I'm in a hurry," replied Hogan.

Spiegelmann looked up, his white hair forming a nimbus in the light. "_Servus_, Colonel Hogan. I suppose you have come to take Freischütz to safety. I am curious about how you will manage it. Did you know the Gestapo have this building under constant watch?"

"I know all about it. In fact, our friend Hochstetter is across the street right now."

"Then you were reckless to come yourself," grumbled Spiegelmann. "If he sees you..."

Hogan cut him off. "Don't worry about Hochstetter. I've got someone keeping him occupied. Where's Freischütz?"

"Upstairs." The watchmaker nodded towards the doorway at the back of the shop, where the end of a flight of stairs could just be made out in the shadows. "He's not very happy."

"Afraid of being captured?"

"Tired of hitting his head. I have low ceilings." Spiegelmann chuckled; then, as Hogan started towards the stairs, the watchmaker waved him back. "Better if I go. The turn of the stairs is quite sharp." He let the glass fall from his eye, caught it neatly and laid it on the bench. In a single fluid movement he rose from his stool and seized the crutch which was propped against the counter; and with the ease of familiarity, he stumped across the floor and vanished into the stairwell.

Going by the series of thumping noises, alternately soft and loud, which marked his progress, he moved pretty fast for a one-legged man. It took less than a minute for him to return.

"_Vorsicht,_" he grunted over his shoulder. A moment later, the crack of a forehead meeting the timber door frame heralded the entrance of the defector, Martin Freischütz.

Even though Hogan had warning, he was taken aback by the sheer scale of the man, and for a moment he wondered whether they should have gotten a bigger van. Apart from his height, however, Freischütz now bore little resemblance to the well-groomed, self-assured soldier whose military and political career had been so spectacularly successful, at least until he had realised that, for the Third Reich, the winds of war were blowing unfavourably, and decided to turn his coat accordingly. Wearing an ill-fitting, shabby suit and a sulky expression, petulantly rubbing the bump on his brow, he seemed more like a ridiculously overgrown schoolboy than a ruthless functionary of the Nazi regime.

"Freischütz?" Hogan nodded in greeting; there was no way he would offer this man a handshake. "I'm here to move you out."

"Impossible," snapped the defector. "The Gestapo will arrest me the moment I step out of this building. I knew it was a mistake to trust my life to you people, and you see I was right. I might as well surrender at once, and save them the trouble of pursuit."

"Glad to see you're keeping your spirits up," said Hogan. "Spiegelmann, you're coming along, too. Now they've got you on their radar, you have to disappear."

Spiegelmann accepted the news with a shrug. "I'll just pack up my tools."

"Make it snappy. You've only got a couple of minutes," replied Hogan.

"Are you mad?" said Freischütz. "Even if I managed to avoid being seen by the Gestapo, I would still have to risk being seen on the street. I am well known throughout Germany. Someone is sure to recognise me."

"You won't be seen. I've organised transport. Our ride will pull up any minute now," replied Hogan.

The defector rolled his eyes in frustration; the watchmaker looked puzzled. "A vehicle stopping will certainly make Hochstetter suspicious," he said.

"I don't think Hochstetter's going to be a problem." Hogan went to the window, and looked out. "He's going to have something else on his mind."

From here, he couldn't see what was going on inside the flower shop. If all had gone well, Hochstetter wouldn't notice if the band of the Coldstream Guards marched past playing _Rule Britannia_. If not, Newkirk might already be under arrest; and he'd soon have plenty of company.


	3. Chapter 3

"Of course, in my day we weren't quite so forward. At least, not until the war broke out. There's nothing like a declaration of hostilities for turning young thoughts towards romance. It certainly worked for me. Several times, in fact."

Hogan need not have worried. Newkirk had the situation well in hand. If truth be told, he starting to enjoy himself; it wasn't every day he got to flirt with the Gestapo. Not too outrageously, of course, just enough to put Hochstetter and his sidekick off balance, ready for the big surprise.

A significant tactical advantage was gained through Hochstetter's one known virtue; like so many German men of his generation, he couldn't quite bring himself to be discourteous to an elderly woman, unless he suspected her of treason. Unable to dismiss this chatty old dear with his customary impatience, he had been reduced to a state of seething frustration, and as a result had completely failed to notice Hogan going into the watchmaker's shop across the street.

With the major simmering nicely, Newkirk could spare a few moments to turn up the heat under the SS man in the blonde wig. "Dear me, you're blushing again," he said, tilting his head, and waving a playful, lavender-gloved finger. He glanced mischievously at Hochstetter. "You'll have to keep a close eye on her, young man, or some impudent fellow will steal her from under your nose."

"I very much doubt it, _gnädige Frau_," grated Hochstetter, his eyes flickering towards his hapless underling.

"Oh, my, I think he's serious," fluttered Frau Newkirkberger. "You're a very lucky girl, my dear. I've always had a weakness for dark, brooding, men. As a matter of fact, if you don't count my late husband - and why should you? I never did - the only man I ever really lost my heart to was the mysterious kind."

"Is that so?"

"Oh, yes, indeed. There's something irresistible about a man who looks as though he's keeping something secret. Of course, it spoils things a little when you find out that the secret is, he has a wife in Dortmund." Newkirk sighed, and folded his hands. "And another one in Münster," he added; then, almost as an afterthought: "And a mistress in Gelsenkirchen."

Hochstetter's lip curled, and his left nostril flared a little; but Newkirk disregarded the danger signals, and prattled on: "I have to say though, none of my other suitors ever wrote love letters like the ones he sent me from France, during the last war. As a matter of fact I came across them today, while I was doing my spring cleaning, and I very nearly fell for him all over again."

He opened his handbag, which for practical reasons was considerably larger than the beaded reticule he usually carried. "I have them here somewhere...I brought them along, because I thought...now, where have they gone? It's always the same, I can never find anything in here. Just hold these for a moment."

He pressed a jumble of items - coin purse, enamelled powder compact, two pencils and a lace-edged handkerchief - into the hands of the ersatz shop girl. "And these," he went on, adding a folded Japanese fan, a roll of peppermints and a bottle of sal volatile. "You see, I'd completely forgotten about them - the letters, I mean, and the other little keepsakes he left behind. I found them this morning while I was doing my spring cleaning, and I thought, I really should do what I meant to all those years ago, and hand them in to the police."

This unexpected conclusion acted on Hochstetter like a brief, low-voltage electric shock. His muscles tensed, and he fixed a piercing gaze on the old woman. "Why should the police be interested in your former lover's letters?"

"Oh, not the letters, dear, although I'm sure they'd find them fascinating. No, it's his souvenirs from the Western Front. Well, just one of them, really. He was a bit of a collector, you see, he liked to bring back something whenever he went anywhere. It got a bit tiresome after a while, all those silver teaspoons, and postcard albums, and paperweights with pictures of Heidelberg Castle. And as for his war memorabilia, well, let me just say, there are some things a lady really doesn't like to have around the house." Still rummaging, Newkirk produced another item from the apparently endless depths of his bag and gave it to Hochstetter, who accepted it automatically, only realizing what it was once he had it in his hand.

The assistant emitted a squeak, letting the old lady's possessions fall from his grasp. "That is...that is..."

Newkirk finished the sentence for him: "It's a hand grenade, dear. He brought it back from Flanders as a memento, but he forgot to take it with him when he left. I would have sent it after him, if I knew which wife he'd gone back to. As it was, I just put it away and never thought about it again, until today."

"It has a ribbon tied around it," faltered the assistant, peering at the bright pink bow with which the grenade was decorated.

Hochstetter, his eyes fixed on the deadly little package, answered through gritted teeth. "I imagine that is to prevent it from detonating, since the pin is missing."

"Oh, that fell out while I was dusting it, and what with my bad eyesight, I couldn't see where it had fallen," explained Newkirk. "So I thought I'd better just wrap something around it, just to keep everything together. We don't want any accidents, do we?"

Peering into his handbag, he clicked his tongue in displeasure. "Dear me, it seems I don't have those letters with me after all. Still, I don't suppose it matters, does it?"

"What?" Hochstetter mumbled, without looking up. His fingers had folded around the grenade, gripping it securely.

Newkirk was already gathering up his belongings from the counter where they had fallen, and returning them to his handbag. Through the shop window, he caught sight of the black van pulling up in front of the watchmaker's. It would only take a minute for Hogan to get Freischütz and Spiegelmann into the van. All Newkirk had to do was keep Hochstetter from looking across the street for those sixty seconds.

He snapped the bag shut, and gave the major a confiding smile. "I see you know how to handle a grenade. Are you a military man, by any chance? But of course you are. You have that look about you."

Hochstetter tore his gaze from the beribboned grenade, and fixed it on the old woman. For a moment, he seemed not to have understood the question; then he pulled himself together, up to a point. "A military man...yes, I suppose you could say that," he replied faintly.

"My goodness, that's what I call good luck," twittered Frau Newkirkberger brightly. "It's a long way to the police station, especially with my rheumatism. I wasn't sure my poor old legs were going to make it. And it's not really a matter for the _Ordnungspolizei_, now I come to think about it. They don't have the experience necessary for dealing with these little problems. It's a great comfort to know I can leave it in your hands."

"But...but you can't leave it here," protested the assistant, in a falsetto which had nothing to do with his assumed femininity.

Newkirk, with a motherly air, patted his hand reassuringly. "Don't worry, dear. I'm sure your young man knows just what to do in a situation like this. Or if he doesn't, you can always find another one." He gave a cackle of laughter. "Sorry, just my little joke."

The black van had just set off, carrying its cargo of fugitives. It was time for Frau Newkirkberger to make her exit. "Well, we've had a lovely little chat, but I'd better be on my way. _Auf Wiedersehen_."

"One moment," said Hochstetter. From the sound of his voice, he was having some difficulty with his vocal cords. "I regret, _gnädige Frau_...I would be glad to be of service...however, in this instance, I have other duties, and must insist..."

"You'd make an old lady with rheumatic knees carry a live grenade through the streets?" Newkirk drew himself up in scandalised disapproval. "Shame on you, young man. What would the Kaiser say? Good day to you, sir."

Turning on his heel, he doddered out of the shop and into the street. Hochstetter started after him, almost dropped the grenade, and came to an abrupt halt. "Geisler!" he hissed.

His offsider leapt into action, completely forgetting the hazards imposed by the wearing of high heels. By the time he'd regained his feet and reached the door, the old lady, having put on a surprising turn of speed, had already gone from sight.

The van was waiting in the first side laneway. Frau Newkirkberger, trotting along at a sprightly gait, looked up and down the narrow alley, then hopped nimbly in through the back door, and slammed it shut.

"Any problems?" said Hogan.

"Went like a charm, Colonel. You should have seen the look on Hochstetter's face when I handed him the grenade." Newkirk's bonnet was askew; he tossed it aside along with the grey wig, straightened his skirt and rearranged his shawl. "I only wish I could have stayed to see how he gets out of it."

Freischütz, huddled uncomfortably at the far end of the van, and taking up far more room than was reasonable, stared at him in astonishment, but Spiegelmann uttered a snort of laughter, and Hogan's eyes gleamed. "Gentlemen, allow me to present Corporal Newkirk, one of my best men... and my best little old woman."

* * *

Footnote - the inspiration (if one can call it that) for this story came from the following news article, which appeared in the Daily Telegraph (Sydney) on 10th April 2013:

_An elderly woman sparked an explosives scare yesterday when she walked into a Sydney police station carrying a hand grenade. __The army bomb disposal unit was called to the Mosman police station after the woman, 84, handed in the pineapple-shaped bomb - a weapon dating back to World War I which she said she had been keeping in a cupboard... __The woman, who did not want to be identified, said she inherited the grenade from her World War I veteran father more than 40 years ago. "I forgot all about it," she said._


	4. Chapter 4

"Above all, we must stay calm."

Hochstetter didn't seem particularly calm. He spoke softly, and half an octave lower than normal, as though he feared his usual strident tone might bring the crisis to a sudden and unfavourable conclusion.

Geisler, without taking his eyes off the grenade, swallowed convulsively. "_Jawohl, Herr Major_."

"We must take this - this thing to a place where it be detonated safely," Hochstetter went on. "There is an abandoned quarry about a mile from the town where this can be done. We will need a staff car. Where is the telephone?"

"There, on the counter, _Herr Major_."

"I will call headquarters and have them send a car," said Hochstetter. "Hold this."

He thrust the grenade into Geisler's hand. Taken by surprise, the recipient fumbled the pass; tried desperately to juggle the thing back to safety, but succeeded only in catching the end of the pink ribbon securing the safety lever in place. The loosely tied bow came undone; the grenade flew across the shop, and both men instinctively dived behind the counter.

Hochstetter held his breath, wondering if his heart would start beating again before the explosion. Ten seconds passed, then another ten. It should have gone off by now.

Cautiously, he inched his way out of cover to reconnoitre. The grenade lay where it had fallen, showing no signs of carrying out its deadly purpose.

"It seems to be faulty," whispered Geisler. "Do you think it is safe?"

"I don't know." Hochstetter cast a searching glance around the shop. "The broom, there in the corner. Get it."

"With respect, _Herr Major_, what good is it to sweep the floor, when we are about to be blown to pieces?"

"_Dummkopf_!" Hochstetter pushed the fool out of the way, and seized the broom himself. Almost on tiptoe, he crept towards the grenade, and extended the broom to give it a gentle nudge. Then he retreated again, fast. Geisler uttered a soft whimper, and put his hands over his ears.

The grenade rolled a little way, coming to a wobbly halt as the lever hit the floor.

"Has it exploded yet?" quavered Geisler, after a long pause.

Hochstetter ground his teeth. "No, it has not." He rose to peer over the top of the counter. "This is very strange. I wonder..."

Taken by a sudden suspicion, he approached the grenade, picked it up with great caution, and scrutinised it. "Even though the pin has been removed, the lever is still in the safe position," he announced. "This grenade is a fake."

"What do you think it means, _Herr Major_?" asked Geisler.

Hochstetter raised his head, and gazed out through the window, contemplating the watchmaker's shop with narrowed eyes. "No, it could not be," he murmured.

He turned on his subordinate. "Did anyone enter or leave the building across the street while the old woman was here?"

"I...I do not think so, _Herr Major_."

"You don't think so?" Hochstetter's voice took on a sharp cutting edge; he strode forward, slammed his fist on the counter, leaned forward and subjected the wretched Geisler to a fierce, interrogative glare.

"Uh...I mean, yes...no, I mean, no, _Herr Major_. I saw no activity of any kind," stammered Geisler. "Unless you saw anything, in which case..."

He broke off, as the jangle of the doorbell reminded him that the shop was still open for business. Hochstetter swung around, shoving the grenade into his pocket. Geisler stepped back, hastily pulled his blouse straight, and smoothed down his tangled artificial tresses.

Neither of them had noticed when the staff car drew up in the street outside, but Hochstetter recognised it at once; as he did the owner, who had entered the shop, speaking over his shoulder to another all-too-familiar officer.

"... I myself have little patience with sentimental nonsense. However, buying flowers for my wife once a year, on our wedding anniversary, is preferable to having her spend the next three hundred and sixty-four days reminding me of my thoughtlessness."

"Oh, you're right, General Burkhalter. And may I say, it's a very romantic gesture to choose the flowers yourself instead of having one of your aides take care of it. Especially with your hay fever."

"That is precisely the point, Klink. If I choose them myself, I can be sure they will not cause ...Ah." Burkhalter came to a halt, his eyebrows ascending. "_Guten Tag,_ Major Hochstetter. I was not aware that you liked flowers."

His little piggy eyes, turning from the flustered Hochstetter to the dishevelled blonde behind the counter, glittered with malicious amusement. Colonel Klink, standing just behind him, tittered. Hochstetter clenched his jaw until the muscles felt ready to snap.

"General," he said tightly; then, modulating to a low growl, "Kommandant." He looked at Geisler. "_Fräulein_, I believe our business is done for now. Thank you for your assistance. _Auf Wiedersehen._"

"My dear Hochstetter, do not leave on my account," said Burkhalter in his most affable tone. "I don't wish to intrude upon your...business."

"Neither do I," added Klink, butting in as usual. "Please, Major, go ahead. We don't mind at all."

The gleeful insinuation put the finishing touch to Hochstetter's fury. "I am obliged to you, as always, Klink," he snapped. "But I have some urgent matters awaiting my attention. _Heil Hitler_."

He strode out of the shop, and crossed the street without any regard for oncoming traffic. The seed of doubt, sown by the old woman with her hand grenade, had germinated, taken root in his mind, and found favourable growing conditions. Neither he nor Geisler had seen anything suspicious; this in itself was grounds for suspicion.

The watchmaker's appeared to be closed. He paused briefly, peering through the window, but he couldn't see anything; the interior was too dark, and the glass too dingy. So he walked on, heading for Gestapo headquarters; and he had already decided what orders he would issue when he got there.

He'd suffered enough indignity in the course of this ridiculous operation. It was time to bring it to an end.

* * *

"You know what we could do, once we've finished the spring cleaning?" said LeBeau, as he swept the cobwebs from the edge of the barracks roof.

"No idea." Newkirk gave his end of the blanket a vigorous tug, yanking the opposite corners from Carter's grasp.

"We could start a vegetable garden. Just think about it. We dig it over now..."

"Yeah, 'cause Klink just loves to see us digging, so he won't mind a bit," snickered Carter, as he retrieved his end of the blanket and shook the dust out of it.

LeBeau was not deterred. "...and put in some beans and cabbages, maybe some onions, and then in a few months when they're ready..."

"...they'll all disappear overnight, and the next day the mess hall will be serving vegetable stew," concluded Hogan, who was leaning against the door frame. "Nice idea, LeBeau, but I doubt any of the men are going to be willing to do the work, just to provide extra food for the Krauts."

"We could set trip wires," suggested LeBeau, by no means prepared to give up the idea. But he broke off, as Kinch came out of the barracks, tilting his face towards the warmth of the morning sunshine.

"Message from the sub, Colonel," he said. "Freischütz and Spiegelmann made the rendezvous, they're on their way to England."

"Did Spiegelmann have any trouble getting aboard?" asked Hogan.

"They didn't say, but I guess he managed all right."

"You don't need to worry about Spiegelmann, Colonel," observed Newkirk. "He got up and down our ladders here without any fuss at all. Mind you, I nearly had a heart attack first time I saw him, but he wasn't worried in the least."

Carter folded his end of the blanket. "Boy, was it ever lucky we got them out of there when we did. Another couple of hours, and they'd still have been there when Hochstetter and his men broke down the door."

"Maybe." Hogan glanced at Newkirk, and grinned. "On the other hand, if Frau Newkirkberger and her hand grenade hadn't gotten him all hot and bothered, maybe he'd have waited a few more days before sending his goons in. He had no reason to think Freischütz was already there. But I doubt he'd have waited for long."

"Anyway, it's all sorted now," said Newkirk. "And very nice it is, too, having that job over and done with."

"And the spring cleaning's about done, too," added Kinch. "All but getting rid of all the old junk we found down below. I was thinking, Colonel, there's an old well shaft about a mile from camp where we can dump the stuff, if we can figure out how to get it there."

Hogan considered, then smiled, and shook his head. "You know what, Kinch? Let's not be in a hurry."

His men stared at him. "Hang about, Colonel," Newkirk broke out. "We spent a week clearing all that rubbish out of the tunnels, and now you want to keep it?"

The familiar gleam in Hogan's eye was answer enough, even before he spoke: "Why not? After all, you never know when you're going to need a fake hand grenade."


End file.
